_Underneath that, are the following lines_:
Good unexpected, evil unforeseen,
Appear by turns, as fortune shifts the scene:
Some, raised aloft, come tumbling down again,
And fall so hard, they bound to rise again.
_The Artist._ BY MR. CONCANEN.
Very nicely thou lay’st on thy colours, dear Nan,
And no painter in skill can o’ertop ye;
When to Ellys you sat, he dully brushed on,
Till he thought he had an original drawn,
Which you proved to be only a copy.
_Epitaph on a talkative old Maid._
Beneath this silent stone is laid
A noisy antiquated maid,
Who, from her cradle, talked till death,
And ne’er before was out of breath.
Whither she’s gone we cannot tell,
For if she talks not she’s in hell:
If she’s in heaven she’s there unblest,
Because she hates a place of rest.
_A Simile._
Women to cards may be compared: we play
A round or two; when used, we throw away,
Take a fresh pack; nor is it worth our grieving
Who cuts and shuffles with the dirty leaving.
* * * * *
Thais, her teeth are black and naught,
Lucania’s white are grown:
But what’s the reason? These are bought,
The other wears her own.
_The disappointed Husband._
_Mulieri ne crede, ne mortuæ quidem._
A scolding wife so long a sleep possessed,
Her spouse presumed her soul was now at rest.
Sable was called to hang the room in black;
And all their cheer was sugar-rolls and sack.
Two mourning staffs stood sentry at the door;
And silence reigned, who ne’er was there before.
The cloaks, and tears, and handkerchiefs prepared,
They marched in woeful pomp to Abchurch Yard;
When see of narrow streets what mischiefs come!
The very dead can’t pass in quiet home:
By some rude jolt, the coffin lid was broke,
And madam from her dream of death awoke.
Now all was spoiled: the undertaker’s pay,
Sour faces, cakes, and wine, quite thrown away.
But some years after, when the former scene
Was acted, and the coffin nailed again,
The tender husband took especial care,
To keep the passage from disturbance clear;
Charging the bearers that they tread aright,
Nor put his dear in such another fright.
* * * * *
Among the fair that Hyde Park Circus grace,
Canidia seeks admirers of her face;
In vain her airs, her wanton arts she tries,
Among those beauties that engage all eyes:
Bright rays, like diamonds, they around ’em fling,
Whilst she is but the cipher of the ring.
_On a Robbery._
Ridway robb’d Duncote of three hundred pounds;
Ridway was taken and condemned to die:
But for his money was a courtier found,
Begged Ridway’s pardon: Duncote now doth cry,
Robbed both of money and the law’s relief,
The courtier is become the greater thief.
_On Suicide: from_ MARTIAL. BY MR. SEWELL.
When all the blandishments of life are gone,
The coward creeps to death, the brave lives on.
_A Dialogue between two very bad Poets._ BY MR. CONCANEN.
Says Richard[5] to Joe,[6] thou’rt a very sad dog,
And thou canst write verses no more than a log;
Says Joseph to Dick, prithee, ring-rhyme, get hence:
Sure my verse, at least, is as good as thy sense.
Was e’er such a contest recorded in song?
The one’s in the right, and the other’s not wrong.
[5] Savage.
[6] Mitchel.
_To a Painter drawing a Lady’s Picture._ BY MR. DENNIS.
He[7] who great Jove’s artillery aped so well,
By real thunder and true lightning fell;
How then durst thou, with equal danger try
To counterfeit the lightning of her eye?
Painter, desist; or soon the event will prove
That Love’s as jealous of his arms as Jove.
[7] Salmoneus.
_The Choice._
Too conscious of her worth, a noble maid
Baulked many a lover, and her mind out-strayed,
While yet a peer, less doubting than the rest,
Defied her coldness, and attacked her breast.
A spaniel whelp, and spaniel lord, declare
Their vows to serve, and hope to please the fair;
The cautious nymph, still fearing a trepan,
Their fortune, wit, and worth, did nicely scan;
Then, as the reason of the case is clear,
Embraced the puppy, and dismissed the peer.
_On a certain Writer._
Half of your book is to an index grown;
You give your book contents, your readers none.
_On a Flower painted by_ VARELST. BY MR. PRIOR.
When famed Varelst this little wonder drew,
Flora vouchsafed the growing work to view;
Finding the painter’s science at a stand,
The goddess snatched the pencil from his hand,
And, finishing the piece, she smiling said,
Behold one work of mine, which ne’er shall fade.
_An Epitaph on Little Stephen, a noted Fiddler in the County of
Suffolk._
Stephen and Time
Are now both even;
Stephen beat Time,
Now Time beats Stephen.
_On Giles and Joan._
Who says that Giles and Joan at discord be?
The observing neighbours no such mood can see;
Indeed, poor Giles repents he married ever,
But that his Joan doth too: and Giles would never,
By his free will, be in Joan’s company;
No more would Joan he should: Giles riseth early,
And having got him out of doors is glad;
The like is Joan: but turning home is sad;
And so is Joan: oft-times when Giles doth find
Harsh sights at home, Giles wishes he were blind;
All this doth Joan; or, that his long-earned life
Were quite out-spun; the like wish hath his wife:
In all affections she concurreth still;
If now with man and wife to will and nill
The self same things, a note of concord be,
I know no couple better can agree.
_To a Sempstress._
Oh, what bosom but must yield,
When, like Pallas, you advance,
With a thimble for your shield,
And a needle for your lance!
Fairest of the stitching train,
Ease my passion by your art;
And in pity to my pain,
Mend the hole that’s in my heart.
_On a Certain Poet._
Thy verses are eternal, O my friend!
For he who reads them, reads them to no end.
_A Distich, written under the sign of the King’s Head and Bell in
Dublin, at the host’s request._